


my love's as sweet as can be

by IronButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronButterfly/pseuds/IronButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was there a point in his life when he wasn’t this? Allowed to touch and kiss and have Sherlock as his whenever the desire struck him? To be with Sherlock the way they’ve only really been for such a short time in their long friendship? It feels to John like it’s always been this way…his body no longer remembers how it feels not to have Sherlock within close proximity. Was he ever not awakened to Sherlock going about in their kitchen, in pajamas, his hair a sweet tousled mess and him humming a soft foreign tune under his breath?</p>
            </blockquote>





	my love's as sweet as can be

**Author's Note:**

> A short thing, I wrote really quickly! Not beta-ed, brit-picked or even that heavily edited, so please excuse the possible errors!x 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock peers at the crepe sizzling in the pan and licks something off his wrist. He looks triumphant, comely and so painfully endearing, that John’s chest feels like it’s cracking open, bursting with love and contrition at the years wasted.

 

Was there a point in his life when he wasn’t this? Allowed to touch and kiss and have Sherlock as his whenever the desire struck him? To be with Sherlock the way they’ve only really been for such a short time in their long friendship? It feels to John like it’s always been this way…his body no longer remembers how it feels not to have Sherlock within close proximity. Was he ever not awakened to Sherlock going about in their kitchen, in pajamas, his hair a sweet tousled mess and him humming a soft foreign tune under his breath?

 

However, the sight does awaken a different, a not quite welcome memory of Mary – of his ex assassin wife – working in the kitchen with something John could only pinpoint as wifely grace, of her spying John lurking at the doorway in grubby boxers (much as he’s doing now), of her leaning against the kitchen counter and saying, “Well, hello, handsome.”

 

Bile and dread inch up John’s throat at the mere thought of her.

There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.

 

That’s mostly how John used to feel with Mary all the time, he supposes, and quickly catches himself before letting that trail of thought dominate the pleasant ones he was having, just then. Of Sherlock soft and pliant and within close proximity. If John took Sherlock in his arms, he would probably smell like berries and powdered sugar and …and he’d smell like _them_. The imaginary scent alone is enough to make John go weak at the knees a bit, and he has to lean against the doorframe to prevent from swooning further and embarrassing himself.

 

And it’s just that little bit odd and ultimately endearing to discover such sides of a person, he’s never even dared to hope they possessed. John’s been cataloguing - more like keeping track of - every single new thing he learned about the man he loves, and yes, maybe his methods were not quite close to the dedication Sherlock’s put into gathering an entire bloody archive on him (since when is a question that remains unanswered still) and yes, perhaps it was just the picture of his head glued to the infamous vitruvian man, that really prompted John to start his own investigation.

 

And he’d been wrong, so wrong. They could abandon the work this instant and do nothing but raise bees or take up a jam business or do this, and John would be content, he would be happy. He doesn’t need, as Sherlock once had claimed, a certain lifestyle filled with danger and adrenaline rush, no. He would not – he could not – settle for anything other than what they had now, and how could he, when every time he took Sherlock into his arms he felt born anew, felt a fresh wave of adrenaline and emotions the likes of which he’s never felt before, rush through him. Every minute, every moment spent with Sherlock is an idle adventure John treasures more than anything else in the entire world.

 

Now, seeing this absolute marvel of a person prepare breakfast for them – for John – he feels his heart burst with love, and the reassuring warmth of Sherlock is suddenly more than John can keep himself from and he’s striding in and to him within a heartbeat, making sure to bump his hip lightly against a drawer so as not to completely startle the man.

 

Sherlock turns his head.

 

“Hi.” John smiles, trailing a hand down Sherlock’s side and eliciting a pleasing little shiver from the younger man.

 

“Hello.” Sherlock positively purrs the greeting and swoops down to bring their mouths together. They stay there for a while, kissing softly until Sherlock’s attention is required elsewhere, with the delicious smelling crepes, and John uses the opportunity to lean farther in, loop his arms around the detective’s lean waist and start pressing soft kisses between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and up to the nape of his neck.

 

Sherlock jumps a little at the tender press of John’s lips to the skin of his neck, but soon relaxes in his arms again, letting out a low humming sound.

 

This. Is this what John’s been missing out on for the last few years? This, here, the feeling of rightness, of comfort and safety. This intense feeling of reverent love. All achieved after long years of being apart, of causing each other so much hurt. And mellow is the man who knows just what he’s been missing out on.

 

His arms tighten instinctively around the detective and Sherlock huffs lightly, making John brace himself for Sherlock to pull away or to tell him off for distracting him, but Sherlock does neither. Sherlock, he realizes, has never been the one to pull away, and John suddenly feels his throat choke up with all the promises and words he is yet to say to this incredible man. He wants to hold him close, wants to promise to never wrong the man in his arms ever again, wants to tear open his own chest and offer Sherlock everything he has, everything he is.

 

What he does though, is nuzzle closer, burrow his face against the side of Sherlock’s neck to hide his stinging eyes and murmur quietly, “You smell wonderful.”

 

And what Sherlock does in answer is huff a soft laugh through his nose, squeeze John’s hand and whisper, “Idiot.”

 

And John grins broadly, not even trying to conceal his happiness, because in sherlockian, after all, it’s nearly a declaration of love.


End file.
